Say yes when a runner who has read you, likes you, and is willing to foot the bill to fly you to one of the most beautiful places in the world invites you to be his escort on the last Saturday night in June. Run the final portion of the Western States 100-miler with him a couple of times. Feel secretly relieved that he never breaks 24 hours so that he keeps wanting to go back. And to have you with him.

Be disappointed when he doesn't get in through the lottery. Despair when he doesn't get in the following year. Have surgery and miss out on pacing him when he finally scores a number for the 2008 race. Enjoy furtive happiness when the race is canceled due to fires. Shape up well for the 2009 edition. Be disappointed when you find out he's also bringing his pacer from the year before, the cancelled year, and you get to do only the last 20 miles.

Enjoy a spectacular vacation in Squaw Valley with your runner, his other pacer, and his other pacer's wife. Go for a run behind the fire house and get lost somewhere on Granite Chief. Experience geographic bliss. Scratch the poison oak you contracted the week before until your skin is oozy and bloody. Say "Yeah, yeah," when people ask if it's poison oak. Feel like you look: hideous.

Give a desultory whoop when the gun goes off at 5 on Saturday morning and load all the luggage into the car. Drive for hours to the first aid station at Robinson Flat. Wait for hours. Sweat while standing still. Make fun of your Running Times colleague for never wearing a shirt. Hang out with previous champion Nikki Kimball's ex-husband, and take off Nikki's shoes when she comes through in tears. Realize that anyone can have a bad day. Even Nikki Kimball.

Shuck off the apologies of your runner when he shows up saying, "Sorry guys, I'm not going to make 24." Know that he is doing his best on a wretched hot day and feel bad that he's not going to meet his goal. Hope that he stays smart and safe and remember that 100 miles is a ridiculous distance to run, especially on a wretched hot day.

Drive to Michigan Bluff and get comfortable. Flit from group to group, catching up on the lives of people you haven't seen in years. Flirt with men who are young enough to be your spawn. Gossip about newly dead Michael Jackson. Think about how much you love the early stories of Lorrie Moore. Slather sun block. Inhale a cheeseburger. Make fun of your Running Times colleague for having told you that he has 3 percent body fat. Tell him to put on a shirt.

Spectate as the front runners come in, strong and fast. Cheer and clap. Watch the rest of the pack trickle through. Sweat from just sitting.

Check the timing sheets to see who has dropped and be thankful for computers. Start to fret when your runner is an hour behind schedule. Worry when he comes in two hours after his planned arrival, pale, haggard, having puked and, he says, passed out on the trail. Sit with him in the medical tent. Bring him saltines and ginger ale. Thank the volunteers. Fetch more ginger ale.

Argue when your runner tells you to go ahead to Foresthill to run in with your friend who has not been able to find a pacer. Tell him that you are here for him, that you're not leaving him. Recoil when his tone becomes sharp and he yells at you to just go, and says that the other pacer can run the whole way with him; he wants to be sure you get to run. Make a note never again to joke, "It's all about me," because sometimes people take you at your ironic word.

Sprint up the hill dragging a heavy gear bag and change clothes in the car while the other pacer's wife drives like a NASCAR pro. Arrive at Foresthill seven minutes before your new runner comes through. Offer him a still-hot brownie that a volunteer has handed you and tell him he now has a pacer. Strap on your headlamp and settle in for the next 38 miles.

Appreciate that it is better to start running at 9 p.m. than it is to wait around until well after midnight, as planned. Consider how much easier it is to pace than it is to crew. Except for the part about the river. Try not to think about crossing the river.

Concentrate on how beautiful the trail is. Marvel at the stars and then catch yourself when you trip. Swear out loud. Attempt to keep your damned potty mouth shut. Listen for the generators at the aid stations and look forward to eating grilled cheese sandwiches and M&Ms in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. Lie to your runner about how well he is doing and then realize that he is doing well. Be amazed that he doesn't whine for a minute. Not for a second.

Ask eight people if they will carry you across the river. Try not to feel pissed off when they all turn you down. When one of the guys standing in that cold water -- there to help you cross -- laughs at you as you yelp and shriek and says hey, it's not that cold and the stars are out and it's a beautiful night, tell him to shut the hell up. Then feel bad for barking at a volunteer.

Focus on your runner. This is his race. You are there for him. Your effort is insignificant in the face of his; to mention any discomfort of your own would be insulting. Realize that, in fact, you are experiencing no discomfort.

Note that he has gone through a zillion cycles; he has felt terrible and come back around. Remark that this is a big-ass metaphor for life. Remind him during the bad times that he will feel good again soon. Remind him that he ran his first 100-miler a year ago in 19 hours and that he has been injured for months and unable to train, that he's running only because he has a number from last year's cancelled race. Remind him that he's 56 years old, for heaven's sake. Tell him he looks good, strong. Mean it.

Feel verklempt when the folks of Auburn greet you in the morning. Say: This is better than Boston. Be shocked when someone says, "Good job, pacer"; realize you somehow forgot that you were here too. Delight in how this little town embraces ultrarunning; find it remarkable that no one thinks this is nutty. Know that it probably is.

Reach the track just after 10 a.m. Dash the last 300 meters with your runner, impressed at how he picks up speed, and then sprint through the pacer chute and turn back to watch as he crosses the line. Check the clock and know that he had some time to spare, but not that much. Feel good about goading him to work harder the last few hours.

Look around the field. Look at the runners and imagine the stories. Learn that only 238 people finished; remember that nearly 400 started. Consider what it takes just to get to the start.

Look at all the runners, the pacers, the crew members, the volunteers, the vendors, the race officials. Know that each has a story.